"I'd be willing to bet," said Morgan thoughtfully, "that you believe it yourself?'
"Tommyrot!" snapped J. R. "You're making Depping out as an ex-criminal, who wanted to kill Spinelli—"
"I only said there was something highly unsavory in his past."
"Humph." After a time of lowering his head and grunting, the other's tone changed again to tolerant sarcasm. "It would look well enough for a book, my lad, but it won't do. There's one great big thundering hole in it. Know what it is? Shut up. Let me talk. Ill see to what lengths of nonsense you're willing to go before I explode the thing… Suppose it's true. Which I don't admit, mind. What then?"
"Why, we come back to the fact that the murderer is somebody in our midst." Morgan got up again, stared at the darkening sky, and began to move about rather uneasily. He had the air of one who has started up more than was his intention. "That is… Look here, is this what Dr. Fell thinks? For God's sake, man, tell me the truth!"
Donovan, who had been cursing himself, made an attempt at mysteriousness that was not very successful. He shrugged his shoulders. Patricia was brooding with her chin in her fists. Morgan went on:
This was Depping's world. If he wanted a confederate to keep guard in his room while he went out after Spinelli…"
"Rubbish," said J. R. "And I’ll tell you why… Assume what you say is true. His having a confederate for this business is fantastic. Worse than the idea he was a criminal in the past. Much. Pah! Listen to me." The red bowl of his pipe stabbed out in the gloom. "What did Depping most want to do?"
"About what? I don't follow you."
Patricia passed a hand over her hair and then gestured like one who wants silence in which to think. "I say, wait a bit. I think I follow." She turned accusingly to J. R. "At least you'll admit this. You've always thought he was playing some sort of part — now, haven't you?"